Interlude
by born30
Summary: An extended tag to 10.24 "Damned If You Do"; Resigning from NCIS alongside his co-workers should have been Tony's first clue that it was going to be a summer like no other. Then she offered to be his piano teacher, and nothing was ever the same.
1. May

**Disclaimer: **_NCIS_ is not mine. The show and the original characters belong to Don Bellisario, Gary Glasberg, and CBS. This was written strictly for fun, not for profit.  
**Summary: **An extended tag to 10.24 _Damned If You Do_; Resigning from NCIS alongside his co-workers should have been Tony's first clue that it was going to be a summer like no other. Then she offered to be his piano teacher, and nothing was ever the same.

* * *

_And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, _

_I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. ~ _F. Scott Fitzgerald

**- May -**

It was no easy feat startling Ziva David, but she was practically asking for it when she slinked away from the rest of the dinner party and into the shadows cast by the dim lamp light in his living room. Apparently, his baby grand was too tempting for her to resist.

"That's right, you play."

His voice was an electric shock to her spine, straightening further her habitually ram-rod straight back, compliments of the Israeli Army or the ballet classes she once mentioned taking as a young girl, he couldn't be sure. Probably both.

Caught with her fingers on the keys, Ziva glanced over her shoulder, a pose any movie starlet worth her B-List status had perfected. Instead of a smoldering pout, she smiled. It was fainter than the dazzlers she'd displayed for the benefit of McGee and Abby during dinner. It was honest.

"I am surprised you remember that."

Tony blindly took the single step down into the room and sidled up alongside her, all without jostling the glass of wine in his hand.

"You are…unforgettable, Miss David."

They exchanged looks—his pleased, hers appreciative—with practiced ease. It was comforting that some things hadn't changed in a summer defined by changes, starting with the mass resignation from NCIS that saw him, Ziva, and McGee suddenly unemployed and effectively in possession of the federal charges lodged against their boss. At least they were still friends.

Together, the ex-partners stood in front of the piano that served as centerpiece in his apartment, their faces reflected in the glossy black surface. Even in the watery mirror, her expression was clearly forlorn, lost in a past only she could see. One of her willowy fingers stretched out and plunked down on a random key. A hollow tone rose and then faded.

"I used to play," she admitted, adding with sudden insight, "As did you, if _I_ remember correctly."

Tony exhaled a half-hearted laugh, resisting the tug of his own memories. "That was a long time ago."

"You could learn again."

"I'm an old dog, Ziva."

Her brows knit together, communicating her confusion at the idiom.

"Set in my ways," he clarified.

"I could teach you." The offer slipped into existence with no pretense; the corners of her mouth wavered in a shrug as she turned her direct gaze on him, waiting for a response. "It might take our minds off other things…"

It wasn't the first time she'd made the suggestion, but it was the first time he was considering accepting it.

Granted, learning to play the piano wasn't exactly an item on his Bucket List. It was just that he always forgot how endless a week was until he didn't see her for the entire length of one, and that wasn't something he felt capable of repeating every seven days, courtesy of these group gatherings scheduled by their Goth friend, for the remainder of the summer. It was still May.

"Only if you would like," Ziva qualified, after his stunned silence filled an extended moment.

A sip of the ruby liquid from his glass moistened his mouth enough to speak. "I could make some time," he eventually replied.

* * *

Tony was pouring himself a cup of coffee when a decisive rhythm of knocks resounded from the front door. Now that he was home more often, the old cougar across the hall had taken to 'stopping by' every chance she got to ask about Senior, or—what really tickled his fancy—for no reason at all. Nine in the morning was a bit early, though, even by her unabashedly intrusive standards.

"What does she want now…" Tony muttered, cinching the terrycloth belt on his robe tighter around his waist and padding bare-footed into the main room. With a sharp tug on the handle, the door swung ajar. "How can I help you, Jennif—" His words dropped off at the reveal of the visitor's identity. "Ziva?"

"Were you expecting someone else?"

A far cry from his desperate neighbor, his ex-partner stood on his welcome mat in one of her usual work ensembles, a beige tote slung over one shoulder. Her eyes swept the length of his body, taking in his state of undress, which on any other day he would have relished, but his brain was dragging.

"Yeah. Kinda."

"You forgot our plans, then."

Like a smack to the back of the head, their unlikely arrangement flew forward, affording him enlightenment. "Oh right, the first lesson. We agreed on today?"

"Yes," she confirmed.

Tony cringed inwardly. "And today is…?"

The absence of his job—the non-stop stream of cases to investigate, suspects to interrogate, leads to hunt down—positioned the workaholic outside his comfort zone, a disorienting sensation not unlike crossing multiple time zones. Not since his last summer vacation from college could he recall waking up in the morning, genuinely unsure what day of the week it was, or if it was, in fact, a weekend. Barely two weeks of unemployment and he was already screwed up.

Taking a step backwards, Ziva gestured aimlessly behind her. "Obviously, this is not a good time for you. Perhaps another—"

"No!" The exclamation was too hasty, and he could see wariness crease at the corners of her eyes. Time, really, was all he had now. "I mean, no, it's okay," he amended, his volume adjusted, and opened the door wider in invitation. "Come on in."

Ziva did what was requested of her, the delectable scent of honey and almonds wafting off her skin as she passed him through the doorway.

"There's coffee in the kitchen, if you want some," Tony choked out, but received only a quiet hum of acknowledgement in response.

Her footsteps maintained their determined speed all the way to her final destination of the piano. She knew her way around his apartment as only someone who'd used it as a safe house could. The tips of his ears heated at the memory of her first visit there. They stayed up late talking with Schmeil, steering clear of any topics that could possibly remind Ziva that her father had been dead for barely over a day. Not a simple task, though the men in her company managed with some impressive tag-teaming.

After her old friend dozed off on the couch, Tony followed her to the door of his bedroom. "If you need anything, I'll be in the other room. Just holler."

Ziva could not meet his steady gaze, her chin almost touching her chest, and he could not explain how that action, out of all the other defensive, self-preservation measures she was employing, worried him the most.

"You have done enough already," she assured him.

But he wouldn't have minded, if she'd asked him for a little more.

While that night was only a few months in their wake, they had lived a small lifetime in the interim. That they were here in his apartment again, entertaining a frivolous activity commonly reserved for children, was almost comical. Except that all her movements were confident as she emptied her bag of its contents: a metronome, two slim music books, and a yellow pencil. And he realized that maybe this, in some strange reversal, was the equivalent of her hollering for him at long last.

Without sparing him a glance from her preparations, Ziva ordered, "Go get dressed, Tony."

His bright smile was wasted on her long stretch of back. "Right. I'll be back in a sec. Don't go anywhere," he tagged on before dashing into his bedroom to change.

Finally, a new purpose.


	2. June

**A/N:** Hello, readers! Thank you for all your support at the start of this story! So here's the next part. Enjoy, and I'd love hear what you thought! ^_^

* * *

**- June -**

There was a rhythm to it.

How she pulled a chair in from the dining room and positioned herself on the right side of the bench on which he sat, her body leaning in closer when his hands obeyed and drifting away when his foibles piled up like a multi-car wreck.

How the monotonous tick of the metronome served as the soundtrack for the lessons, beating out what he considered an overwhelming pace for his green level of proficiency but that she claimed was actually very slow.

How she insisted that he sit up tall, rather than slouch, when practicing, deft fingers shooting out and pinching low on his spine to correct the chronic imperfection—and if not for the spark her touch alighted on the patch of skin beneath his shirt, he might have stopped her, too.

Through it all, she arrived like clockwork, first once a week, then twice, and they'd squeeze in a mini-lesson before the weekly dinners with McGee and Abby.

And he kept opening the door, letting her in.

* * *

Tony lifted his fingers into the air, allowing the previous set of keys to breathe as his digits transferred up the keyboard and applied pressure to a new trio of white. The resulting chord emitted a strangled hum.

Seated at his elbow, Ziva cringed in a way that would've been understandable—if he'd run his fingernails across a chalkboard, that is. "No, no, stop. There it should be C-E-G." She indicated with her pencil to a line halfway down the sheet of music propped up on the piano rack. "See?"

Although a month into this improbable endeavor, the notes and symbols still made his eyes cross, so her attempt to point out his mistake didn't have the intended effect.

"I thought I did! There must be something wrong with this thing…"

His eyes narrowed in at the ashen stretch of keys; her eyes narrowed in on him.

"Have you been practicing?"

"Yes," he vowed.

"Are you lying?"

"Yes."

Ziva shook her head sharply and deposited her full weight into the embrace of the chair. He elicited that reaction from her so many times that he swore the wood was beginning to splinter.

"There is nothing wrong with the piano, Tony. It is _you._ You are not taking this seriously."

"Wow." A scoff razored up from the back of his throat. "Flashback to me at eight-years-old in Mrs. Marcowitz's piano studio of horror. _'You, Mr. An-to-ny, must be more serious if you are to become a proper pianist.'_" Tony dropped the uppity accent and pinned her with a skeptical look. "You aren't going to slap my knuckles with a ruler, too, are you?"

"I would not tempt me right now!" Her frazzled expression was matched only by the abundance of wild curls cascading down her back. Summer was in full swing, and the humidity was murder.

A chuckle escaped through his lips. "Okay, my ninja. Hold on."

Rising to his feet, Tony left her there and retreated into the kitchen. If he'd learned anything from their eight years of partnership, it was that sometimes they both needed a break. He took more time than necessary to fill two glasses with cubed ice and filtered water from the dispenser on his refrigerator. He would have brought them something to nibble on as well, but he knew without having to check that his cabinets were shamefully bare.

It was a product of the job, one of many trade-offs for being an NCIS special agent, exchanging a gun and badge for sustained intimacy and a possible family of his own. Now that he was stripped of the former accomplishments, all he had left were the crumbs in the underdeveloped side of his existence. It was a brisk reality check, to say the least.

On his way back with the drinks, he lingered under the archway between the dining and living rooms for a glimpse of his friend, her back to him as she stood by the window, peering out at his unremarkable view of the Georgetown neighborhood. Her switch from slacks and dark colors to khaki shorts and fitted tees was just one reason he wasn't complaining about the current streak of warm weather across the D.C. area. The sun-kissed tint of her skin was another.

"Here you go." Tony allowed his words to announce his return.

Ziva accepted the glass he handed to her. "Thank you."

They both took their first sips in a silence interrupted only by the drone of the A/C pumping cool, tumbled air up from the floor vent under the window, a foot or so away from where she still stood, one knee popped out, flamingo-style.

Tony had a sudden urge to ask what she did when she wasn't with him, either for these lessons or the meals they frequently went out for afterwards. His days were otherwise uneventful, aside from the handful of times he'd set out for a run at dusk, his un-exercised muscles allowing him to venture only short distances from his apartment. She would have thought he was being his typical DiNosey self, but it wasn't like that.

Now that the worst of everything they'd been through with Bodnar and Parsons was over, he was nursing the hope that they could get back to where they were in the fall, when telling each other personal stuff had become the norm. When they were friends, one might say, with a different kind of benefits.

"Is that why you quit?" Her voice was a welcome diversion from his thoughts, especially as it was no longer lined with frustration. The break had done her good. "You did not care for your teacher?"

Tony straddled the piano bench sideways, a move that felt oddly rebellious. "It was part of it, I guess," he replied, pausing to sift through the albums of his memories and set the record from that period of his life to play. "My mom wanted me to take the lessons, and I wanted to make her happy, never mind that I hated it from the start. I think that's why I stuck with it as long as I did, but once she died…" His shrug was meant to fill in the rest of the sentence.

When he lifted his eyes, her own were waiting for him, golden and tranquil. Ziva David knew a lot about losing family members. He almost didn't want to bring it up—her loss was deeper and still raw—but for that same reason, she understood and didn't toss arbitrary pity at him, as most people did.

"It sounds to me like she wanted the best for her son."

"It wasn't like I was going to be the next Mozart anyway," he joked in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

Ziva walked around the piano and lowered into her chair, crossing her legs. "Do not sell yourself short. I think you are doing…well."

"Really?"

The surprise in his tone elicited a genuine smile from her. "You would be better if you practiced."

"I'll take what I can get." Tony raised the glass and drank, droplets splashing onto the trimmed beard he was growing as a result of not bothering to shave. "'Cause a few minutes ago, I thought I was going to be 0-2 for piano teachers."

"And you still might," she countered with a laugh.

A teasing glint danced in her eyes as they held his gaze, flickering down to his lips, and back up again—an imperceptible movement that reversed all the work the water had accomplished in cooling him down.

"But not today," Ziva said, and took a sip of her own drink.

The stray beads of water collected on the back of his hand with one smooth swipe over his mouth. Tony nodded slowly, never looking away from her.

"Good to know."

It was going to be a long summer.

* * *

It was after Ziva returned to the dining room from helping Abby pack up the leftover frittata that McGee bobbed his head once, coming to a conclusion, and declared, "Rule #39."

As she slid into her chair on the same side of the table as Tony, they looked first at each other, mirrors of confusion, and then at their former partner.

"'There's no such thing as coincidence,'" they recited together.

"As in, that you two would be humming the same piece of music. In different rooms." McGee wore an expression that spoke to his desensitized attitude toward the quirk. Like he saw such concurrences between his friends every day; it was part of the Tony and Ziva packaged deal. That was how they came.

Ziva slanted away to set him in her sights. "We were?"

Honestly, Tony hadn't noticed he was humming until it was pointed out to him, but the piece she had him working on—something from Beethoven—had been stuck in his head all day.

"I guess so," he replied.

McGee raised his hands above the table, displaying them in exaggerated surrender. "I'm not even going to ask."

At that, the sandy-haired ex-agent had to object. "She's giving me piano lessons, McPresumptuous."

They weren't keeping it a secret, exactly. Every time they all got together, the topics of conversation revolved around the possible ramifications of their resignation, speculations on Gibbs' special assignment, and of course, the scuttlebutt Abby brought with her from the Navy Yard.

What they did in their free time didn't come up that much, perhaps because there wasn't much to tell. McGee had returned to writing; they had the piano lessons. They'd all been set adrift and were treading water until they could ride the tide back home.

"Seriously?" The truth came as a shock to McGee. "You're either a saint or a glutton for punishment, Ziva. Either way, my hat's off to you." He toasted her with his wine glass, much to her amusement.

"Excuse me," Tony scoffed. "I'm a great student. Tell him, Ziva."

Although her throaty chuckles failed to corroborate his claim, it was impossible for him to consider the sound of her laughter anything but a reward.

He found himself smiling stupidly and laughing along. "Gee, thanks a lot."

"Aw," Ziva breathed.

Reaching out both hands, she rested them high up on his arm, her heated touch soft and generous, stripped of its usual reserve by the wine she'd consumed with dinner. It was a gesture with the intent to soothe, and it worked—until Abby waltzed in from the kitchen, causing Ziva to reclaim her hands into her lap.

"Everybody is so happy," the forensic scientist observed as she rejoined the group. She was holding up remarkably well considering her family was disbanded, and they all knew it was these dinners that kept her functioning. "What haveI missed?"

"Ziva's teaching Tony to play the piano." McGee was gleeful and smirking.

"Ooo." Abby swiveled around toward her friends, her hands up near her shoulders, fingers splayed out, with excitement brightening her already perpetually cheerful face. "This I have to see."

Ziva sat forward, resting her forearms on the edge of the table. "I do not think an audience is a good idea for Tony. He is easily distracted as it is."

"Hey," he protested lightly, aiming to catch her eye, but she was looking straight ahead, decidedly averting his gaze.

He was getting spoiled by the Ziva who slid her pencil behind her ear halfway through each lesson; who slipped off her shoes when they sat on his couch and ate pizza, half the time watching _The Philadelphia Experiment _or _All About Eve _or _The Apartment_, the other half spent just talking. Apparently, that Ziva wasn't for everyone to see.

Abby wasn't deterred. "Okay then. But, can you, like, play anything real yet?"

The request was literal music to his ears. "I thought no one would ever ask," Tony said, whisking her off to the piano in the other room. "And now for Anthony DiNozzo, Jr.'s musical styling of—" Fingers posed on the black and white keys, he paused to build suspense. "_Jingle Bells_."

"Wow, Christmas in June. Festive."

"Prepare to be amazed, Miss Sciuto."

Just as he made it through the first stanza—Abby acting as lone vocalist—the rest of the dinner party caught up with them, McGee taking a seat on the black leather sofa and Ziva hanging back, propping her shoulder against the wall dividing the rooms to watch the scene unfold.

Tony had the notes memorized well enough to tear his eyes away from the sheet music and glance up at her. What he saw there was not the critical stare of a piano teacher or a friend humoring a friend, but rather something weighted, even in her distance, and constant, even when she blinked.

It wasn't until their next regularly scheduled lesson, with vivid rays of late-morning sunlight filtering through the tapered slits in the blinds, reflecting off the polished surface of the piano, that he could call her on it.

"What you said to Abby the other night," Tony began, toting her customary chair up beside the piano bench. "About not having an 'audience' for these lessons of ours."

Ziva sank into the chair, only her eyes following him as he lifted the cover off the front of the metronome, releasing the pendulum to swing from side to side.

"Yes," she acknowledged.

Tony took his own seat, sighed, and shifted to face her. "I was thinking about it and… I think you were wrong." Before she could interject, he held up a finger to plead for her patience and leaned in, as if to share a secret with her. "And I also think you should just admit it."

She squinted at him. "Admit what?"

"You want me all for yourself."

"Oh, I do, hm?"

He couldn't tell if she was going along with him or not, so he risked it. "Yeah, you do."

If there was any residual denial that these piano lessons were anything other than well-orchestrated excuses to spend time with each other, it wasn't coming from him. The fact that she'd stuck with him this long—coupled with her on-going willingness to linger in his company afterwards—made him think that she wasn't pretending, either. But when it came to Ziva David's heart, he could never be too sure.

Her brows rose delicately in response to both his assertive statements and the slow bloom of his sideways smile. And she smiled, too, gradually easing into the cool breeze of the revelation, joining him in the gentle current flowing between them.

Then Tony felt her fingers arrive on his low back, posed to correct his habitual slouching with a quick pinch, but there was no need.

He was already sitting up tall.


	3. July

**A/N: Sorry this took a little longer to get out; I got preoccupied writing on a different story—oops! I was blown away by all the love that poured in for the last part. Thank you all_ so much_! I hope that this story can continue to be a safe haven of sorts for all of you. Enjoy the next installment and I'd love to hear what you think of it! -Tatiana**

* * *

**- July -**

July was ushered in on the backs of gloomy rain clouds. Storms descended over the craggy coastline of the Eastern Seaboard, striking with sporadic and frequent abandon, as if making up for the weeks of clear skies, relentless sun, and oppressive heat. Occasionally, Tony discovered his fingers keeping time with the raindrops plopping on the windows, a natural albeit unreliable metronome as he worked through runs of scales and trills.

The subtle tick north of lax in his discipline did not go unnoticed by his teacher during their first lesson of the week.

The dark-haired Israeli leaned forward in her chair beside his bench, the end of her sleek ponytail flipping over her shoulder and landing like a dark stain against the white of her t-shirt. She'd fully dried off from the unexpected downpour that caught her darting the short distance from her car to his building, but that distinctive after-rain aroma still lingered on her skin, sweet and fresh. And terribly distracting when she came close enough for him to pick up the scent.

"Do not misunderstand when I say this," Ziva prefaced, "but I see improvement in you, Tony."

The sandy-haired student dropped the ring finger on his left hand, tapping the wrong key. His head whipped toward her, face aghast.

"Was that a…compliment from Madame Sousatzka?"

Her poorly suppressed grin was a prize, won for the successful teasing of his ex-partner. "Yes, and it will be the last if you continue to do _that_." She pointed to his far hand, referencing the error. "Again."

Tony did as he was ordered, his lips curved in a sly smile as he returned to the beginning of the contemporary piece she'd given him as a challenge.

"So," he prompted while playing through the first stanza, "am I ever gonna get to hear _you_ play one of these days?"

"You already have."

"Showing me the fingerings for pieces doesn't count. And you know what they say about those who can't…"

Her extended silence drew his glance, bringing into view her scrunched expression of puzzlement.

"All right, maybe _you_ don't." Tony arrived at the end of the page and paused, scratching at his stubbly chin (he'd started shaving again). "It's okay. Forget I asked." And he picked up from the top once again.

The appearance of her slender hand over the keys a moment later wasn't out of the ordinary; it usually arrived with the mission of adjusting his finger placement. The difference this time was that her willowy fingers—the ones he knew for a fact slid into place between his own like a key in a lock—settled further up the white-and-black ladder and with no hesitation, pressed down to bring forth a flood of sound.

As if her rare recital wasn't enough of a treat, Ziva rose to her feet. With her fingers still moving, though a little sloppily, she slid onto the edge of the bench beside him. A bump of her shoulder against his own served as a request for him to share.

He didn't have to be asked twice.

Tony inched over, making space for her and losing his place within the piece as a result. There was no middle ground between them, no air; from hip to thigh to knee, they were sealed up tighter than a zipper on a sandwich bag. When he stopped, shaking his hand out, she stopped as well.

"Again," she instructed quietly.

Their hands worked in tandem, her left playing the delicate melody and his right plunking out the bass line. Together, the piece was full and harmonious, rather than the monotonous version he was used to hearing from his own practicing. Their duet lasted less than a minute, Tony bowing out before they reached the tricky part he hadn't tackled yet.

She continued on, carried away with the haunting yet hopeful resonance of the piece, until a final flair of her fingers served as conclusion. A curtain falling after a performance, the sudden hush was loud with the staccato of the drizzling rain outside. The hum of the refrigerator filtering in from the kitchen. Their steady breathing.

"That was…" Tony waited for her face to turn his way before finishing the sentence. "Very cool."

Ziva released a puff of air, her lips reforming in a wistful smile. "I have not done that in…it has been too long."

"Why'd you give it up?"

The question was born of genuine curiosity, of which he had an abundant supply. It was also just as much a ploy for her to remain there, on the narrow bench, with him, if only because she was warm as a sunburn, any fragment of her body that touched his own instantly heated, and not to mention that their close proximity enhanced her scent of rainwater to the level of intoxicating, filling every square inch of his senses.

Whatever the cause, it was effective because the only move Ziva made was to fold her hands into her lap.

"I would play for Tali, as her accompanist. Simple arias," she revealed, staring so intently at a point above the top of the black piano that he wondered if she was seeing the past like a nostalgic film strip in her mind. He could practically hear the clicking of the projector. "She was a better singer than I was a pianist, however. It was not long before she jump-frogged me."

"Leap-frogged." His invested expression counteracted the roll of her eyes. "Go on."

A shake of her head, a minute lift of her shoulders. "There is nothing more to tell. This life—our life—is not conducive to such things. I have had no reason to play in years."

"Until now," he supplied.

Until they surrendered everything they knew, but still couldn't quit each other. Until this summer and the piano.

Ziva shifted her eyes and met the gaze he always had waiting for her. "Tony, I—"

She cut off her own words, instead offering him the same delicate look of gratitude from months earlier, when they were riding in his car on a lonely stretch of road, an illuminating trip to Berlin still visible in the rearview mirror, and the roundabout declaration that he liked her just the way she was fresh off his tongue.

On a surge of determination—to ensure this moment would not be wasted as that one had—he leaned into the negligible space keeping them apart and nestled her face into the cradle of his strong hands. She was so alive beneath his touch, almost feverish, and her deep hazelnut gaze switched from his eyes to his lips, as if unsure where her attention was needed the most.

His hot mouth grazed hers as he asked: "You what, Ziva?"

He brought them as close as they'd ever come to the line they'd toed with caution for eight years.

And she pushed them—finally, irrevocably—across.

* * *

Being with Ziva was like confessing a long-held secret: there was relief in its freedom and pleasure in being able to enjoy it openly. That in one instance he gained from then on the ability to kiss and embrace her as he pleased, to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, or slide their hands together, and her response to it all was acceptance, gave Tony whiplash.

Their relationship had always been a seesaw, dipping up and down on the spectrum of affection, often wavering day-to-day. Sometimes, it was out of their control.

Although it'd happened months earlier, he felt he could turn heel where he stood and be at his desk again, where he waited on that infinite night when the hunt for Bodnar ended bloody, off-book, and with dangling question marks. No matter how many times Gibbs and McGee urged him to, he wouldn't leave until he was certain his partner was safe.

So he waited, anger a clenched fist on his windpipe, rationing his air into shallow huffs. She should have let them help her from the beginning, back when it could have made a difference in the outcome. At the very least, she should have let _him_ help, and with more than just the scraps he was tossed at the end. Once she came down from the conference room, though, her written debrief presumably complete, he found he could already breathe easier.

She'd cleaned the dried blood off her face, making the multitude of swollen, maroon cuts even more evident, and someone had given her a fresh NCIS sweatshirt to wear instead of her dirty shirt and jacket. She walked with a slight hitch in her left stride.

Spotting him at the entrance to the bullpen, Ziva didn't try to hide her confusion. "Why are you still here?"

"Had some paperwork to catch up on, so I—"

"Tony."

They couldn't lie to each other anymore. He wondered if they ever could.

"I'm going to take you home. And if you're planning on arguing with me about it," he paused, exhaling a curt laugh even though none of this was funny, "I'm going to warn you now: You're going to lose. So save it, okay?"

So much for not being angry. It seemed inconceivable to him that a couple of days before they'd fallen asleep in the same bed and danced in each others' arms, and now the expanse between them was a minefield, every possible move a threat to their survival. As usual, it was one step forward, eight back.

Maybe it was because she was broken, or because she'd expelled all her energy on another fight, or because she knew how stubborn he could be—almost as much as her—Ziva nodded, a movement that hurt her, he could tell, by the wince of her left cheek.

She tried to conceal the pain from him, but they'd only ever been good at hiding their feelings from each other when there was something to risk.

That was then.

Now, her hesitancy resided in the slight catch of her breath before they kissed, or the tentative smile when the elevator doors in his building parted to reveal him waiting for her on the other side. It wasn't the type of hesitation that preceded a bad decision, but was rather the kind that came with receiving something rare. Or fleeting. Something worth cherishing.

Tony would have been lying if he'd said the piano held the same degree of appeal for him now that all the pretenses had dissolved within the heat of their lips. The white veneer keys could not compare to the supple skin on the inside of her exposed leg, near her knee, where his fingers typically landed after slinking off the keyboard, tracing random designs into the soft canvas, each one with the aim to entice.

One rainy day, she indulged.

Articles of clothing, like breadcrumbs, dropped to the hardwood floor in their wake, creating a trail from the piano into his bedroom. He followed her down, grateful he'd been presumptuous and bought a new, queen-sized bed earlier that month. She sought out and kissed his neck, plump lips surely detecting his racing pulse. He felt it, too, thudding loudly along with his heart.

Tony wondered if it would have come to this in Berlin or even Paris, had more time been afforded to them while alone in those foreign cities, so that they could have seen each other not as partners or co-workers, but as man and woman. He wondered if, as it sometimes seemed, they were truly inevitable.

He'd always assumed that if and when this did happen between them, it would be eager and demanding, matching the rapid volleying of their banter over the years. There was no doubt he wanted her, more than he could remember wanting anyone in so long. And yet he matched her affection tenderly and without haste.

They had time now, and each other. He wanted her gaze for every moment, and her mouth for days, and her body forever.

This—_them_—was one step forward he never wanted to take back.


	4. August, Pt 1

**A/N: Hi, lovely readers! I am just flabbergasted at the notice this little story has gotten, from the reviews to the followers…even some very nice mentions circulating on Tumblr in response to the last part (which totally shocked and humbled me). **

**I know many of you are using this as therapy for our collective Cote de Pression, so I apologize for the delay. My semester of seven courses started this week. Need I say more? :)**

**As always, enjoyenjoyenjoy. – Tatiana**

* * *

**- August, Pt. 1 -**

It was late afternoon in Arlington, Virginia, and the all-in-one music store and piano studio smelled of oily polisher and pine dust, a combination wafting down from the piano repair center upstairs; it was also a recipe laden with memories for Tony. The last time he was in a similar establishment, he was no different than the children that sat outside the practice rooms now, waiting for their teacher to come out and their lesson to begin.

In fact, he was _exactly_ like the young boy who was arguing with his mother, claiming he didn't want to "play the stupid piano anymore."

Tony had sidled up to the mom and son without realizing it and proceeded to shell out some unbidden advice. "You should really think about sticking with it."

"But it's boring," the kid replied, frowning.

"Look at it this way, girls dig musicians. Trust me." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating across the space to where his striking companion was perusing the rows of sheet music. The boy's brow furrowed. Maybe he was too young to properly appreciate the incentive.

But Tony was not. Personally, he was glad he'd quit early on—it facilitated making up for lost time now, and in more ways than one.

After eight years of skirting the inevitable with more finesse than a fortified hemline, they'd finally come to their senses two weeks earlier, and although the fruition of a romantic relationship with his former partner was long overdue, it was proving, as they say, worth the wait. He still couldn't get over what a relief it was to have someone to talk to about the things that matter, someone to come back to and to be there for, and who sought out the same from him. And he decided it was something he could definitely get used to.

The young pianists' choppy versions of nursery rhythms were nothing but distant echoes on the other side of the store. The distinctive Israeli was no longer in the sheet music aisle, so he searched for her until the strains of more sophisticated playing led him to a practice room tucked in the back.

As he suspected, inside the small room was Ziva, seated at the upright piano with her profile facing the full-length window in the door, which stood ajar. He smiled at the thought of her leaving it that way, expecting him to find her.

Not wishing to disappoint, Tony entered with a half-smile and a soft, "Hey."

At the sight of him, her rosy lips melted into a sideways crescent. "Where have you been?"

"Just looking around. Why," he asked, moving to stand over her, "you miss me?"

"Hmm," she hummed around the curve of his lips, pressed chastely to her mouth.

His thumb brushed over the apple of her cheek before he pulled away. Providing another, brighter smile to tide her over, he set to shutting the door and pulling up a chair for himself beside her bench. It wasn't lost on him that their student-teacher roles were reversed for the first time that summer. He resisted the temptation to retaliate for all those pinches, especially as he knew right where her alluring back dimples resided under the creamy cotton of her sundress…

By the time he was situated, she had returned to the keys, showing off à la _a prima vista_ with the piece resting on the piano rack. Strung together, the chords sounded almost like—

"Is that the theme from _Indiana Jones_?"

Ziva looked impressed with his deduction. "It is a movie you like, yes? And those—" She pointed at the pile of music booklets atop the piano. A quick browse revealed them to be an array of the scores or main themes from films ranging from _Field of Dreams_ to _Rocky_.

A big breath vacated his puffed cheeks as he took his seat again. "You're sure making it tough for me to quit."

The former assassin aimed to wink, but it came out as an endearing sort of blink. "Precisely."

He'd made the mistake of telling her that, in his opinion, the piano lessons had served their purpose. That didn't sit well with her relentless approach to challenges. Ever since, she'd made it her mission to retain his interest in the instrument through a variety of methods, including tapping into his movie addiction, apparently.

"Let's face it, Ziva. I'm not exactly a star pupil. I don't practice!" The acoustics in the small box picked up his laugh and amplified the ragged sound.

Impervious to his attempted deflection, the brunette slid over on the piano bench, her bare knees grazing the denim of his jeans, and reached out a hand. Her caress of his cheek and jaw line belied the potent timbre of her accented voice.

"As you say, I _do_ know you, Tony. I know you do not always allow yourself to have what you really want."

His fingers wrapped around her hand, bringing it to his lips for a taste of the silky center of her cupped palm.

"I want you," he murmured against the sensitive spot.

"That—" Her fingernails ghosted the stubble near the corner of his mouth, effectively sending tingles shooting between his shoulder blades. "—you already have," she promised, catching his gaze and holding it fast in her own. "But that does not mean I will allow you to give up on this. _Again_."

Tony exhaled a quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle. "Yeah?"

She smiled slyly, confidence—in her ability to win him over, or maybe just in him—lending a radiant luster to her exotic features.

And it felt good, the warmth of her certainty on his skin.

* * *

Tony DiNozzo had woken up in his fair share of interesting places. On the floor of frat houses. The back of surveillance vans. The prison cell of a Somali terrorist camp. Nothing was quite so astonishing to him, however, as awakening beside her.

It wasn't Ziva's first sleepover. Over the past month, they could practically be considered living together for the number of hours a day (and night) she spent at his apartment. Yet it was the first time he'd known, even in his sleep, that the familiar topography of her cheekbone and the elegant curve of her eyelid would greet him. That her body would be warm and malleable and tangled up in his own. In essence, that he would wake up to his best friend, the woman who, without knowing it, had owned a slice of his heart—he had to admit—for years.

The anticipation of seeing her was how he came to be awake before her that morning. It beat a ringing cell phone for an alarm clock, beckoning him to gruesome crime scenes at obscene hours prior to sunrise. But that hadn't happened in months.

Truth be told, their state of unemployment probably should have unsettled him more. They still hadn't heard directly from Gibbs and per Abby's intel, Vance was running out of excuses to give SecNav to delay the search for their replacements. Instead, with the future of their jobs on hold, something new had slipped in and taken priority in his life.

And she was currently wrapped in his arms, exhaling feathery hot breath against his chest. For the first time ever, he had real food in his kitchen cabinets and refrigerator; there was a regular-sized bed in his bedroom; and he had a remarkable woman to share it all with by his side. If only he'd known sooner that the only thing he needed to grow up was the proper motivation...

She'd started to forgo her usual pre-dawn risings, indicating to Tony that she had acclimated to their new reality, too. Or maybe she was just _that_ sated. Once touching was added to their repertoire, he'd had a terrible time keeping his hands off of her, even to let them sleep.

Power of suggestion working its magic, Tony found his fingers drawn to the bare stretch of her skin peeking out from beneath the drape of covers. The probing digits moved on the accord of a summers' worth of training to play the faint indentations of her ribcage as substitute piano keys. Each gentle tap of his fingertips was accompanied by a hum, slivered out between his pursed lips, producing the sound her skin could not emit for the corresponding notes.

As if to defy his thoughts, Ziva chose that moment to exhale a little moan and stir under his wispy ministrations.

"F major does not include a D#, Tony," she mumbled, her voice husky with grogginess.

His grin was involuntary. With his chest as her pillow, he felt her eyelashes flutter open as the weight of slumber eased from her limbs, lightening a load he would always be more than happy to bear.

"Are you saying I made a mistake, Miss David?"

Lifting her head, Ziva stacked her hands under her chin, peering up at him with half-lidded eyes. The vestiges of sleep softened her features to a hazy glow, and he knew he'd never grow tired of seeing her so content, especially if he was the one to rouse it to the surface.

"It has been known to happen," she countered before stifling a yawn into the back of her hand.

"I just don't think it's possible." Tony used his free hand to trace her jaw line, relishing the press of her cool cheek into his palm. "See, I have this excellent piano teacher..."

Her lips spread in a graceful smile, hazelnut eyes muted yet sparkling, a combination that elicited an excruciating ache of longing somewhere deep in his chest—and the only remedy was her.

No. He hadn't made a mistake at all.

* * *

Their friends found out during the next weekly dinner, held for the first time at an eatery near the Navy Yard, rather than one of their apartments, but it wasn't a conscious disclosure by the new couple.

Tony, for one, blamed the weather. The dog days of summer had brought with them a heat revival and the return of Ziva's wavy mane, the way he actually preferred it: sexy and untamed. Within the easy flow of companionship that enveloped their table, he reached out an unthinking hand and brushed a stray curl off of her forehead.

Personal boundaries had never been particularly observed by the partners, and yet there must have been a visible shift, in how the gesture failed to startle her, or the private smiles they exchanged afterwards, perhaps, that gave them away.

The resulting reactions varied from a mingling of amazement and jubilance (Abby) to an expression that bordered on unsurprised (McGee). They might also have inadvertently educated the dozen or so past colleagues and acquaintances that were dining at the restaurant, thereby doing their part to fuel the NCIS rumor mill from afar. Tony couldn't say he cared who knew about them, honestly.

"I think it's great," Abby announced, her pigtails bouncing. "I'm so happy for you two!"

McGee nodded sincerely. "Me, too."

"I mean," the forensic scientist continued, "just because you're out of your jobs, and Gibbs is who-knows-where, and Parsons is still out to ruin all of your lives, doesn't mean you should stop living." A good-natured pump of her arm across her body served as an exclamation point on the unusual statement of approval.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Thanks—I think—for that, Abs."

"No problem. But, you do know what this means, right?"

"What is that?" Ziva asked, curiosity coloring her tone.

Abby and McGee glanced at each other and then back at the pair, but it was the computer genius who inclined toward them over the table.

"What are you going to do when we go back?" Their former teammate issued the question as if it was the most obvious of considerations.

"Rule #12," Abby chimed in ruefully, her optimism paling. "Gibbs definitely isn't going to be as happy for you guys as us."

"That's a good point," Tony allowed, the words slithering out despite his stiff jaw. "I'm sure we'll figure something out. Right, Ziva?"

When no audible replay came, he turned his head to search out her confirmation, uncovering hardness settled in the thin depression of her lips; beneath the cool glaze over her eyes, he saw her thoughts whirl in dizzying circles. Perhaps it hadn't been as obvious a consideration to her.

Then, subtly, her face angled away from him, tilting down in the same manner as it had on that night in his apartment after her father died. That she couldn't meet his gaze now worried him in the same measure as it had then, maybe more because shutting him out now carried greater consequences. And not for her alone.

In the shadow of the table, out of public view, he reached for her hand where it rested in her lap. His fingers instinctively intertwined with hers, but the grip she returned was weak, almost slack. The pressure of his hand increased, holding on tightly for them both.


	5. August, Pt 2

**A/N: Hi, my dears! So, fair warning, this is the penultimate chapter. The summer is coming to an end…**

**P.S. Who else is watching the Ziva Appreciation Marathon on USA Network? It hurts so good!**

* * *

**- August, Pt. 2 -**

There were few words between them for the remainder of dinner; there were even fewer on the way back to his apartment. As he had at the restaurant, Tony held her hand while navigating the nighttime streets, but any encouragement he received from her firm grip was siphoned out again by her faraway gaze, directed out her car door window.

A bucket of cold water, the dose of reality from McGee and Abby drenched the picturesque illusion they'd spent the summer constructing around themselves, instantly stripping the vivid colors to dull, gray streaks. It wasn't their friends' fault. This dilemma would have reared its ugly head eventually, and sooner rather than later. Summer was almost over.

Honestly, Tony hadn't been thinking about his job, or Gibbs' rules, or the ramifications of _them_. Not when he agreed to the piano lessons. Not when they exchanged pieces of their histories and of their hearts. Not when he held her, just held her close, because he could. The threat of returning to their former existence and its restrictions changed nothing of how he felt about her and this new relationship between them.

Whether or not Ziva felt the same or saw things differently, he wasn't sure yet. He didn't get a chance to ask when they got in, either.

"You can pick tonight," Tony said, tossing his keys in the requisite bowl atop the entry table as she closed and locked the front door behind them. "If you're not in the mood for a movie, we could always talk, you know, about what McDebbieDowner and—"

His suggestions were derailed by her hands, pushing him hard up against the nearest wall. He could already hear the guff his back would give him for it in the morning, but his playful protest was smothered by her lips, pressing fiercely to any additional patch of skin within striking distance: the curve of his jaw, the hitch of his upper lip, the hollow at his throat. Her desperate pace matched the ominous metronome he'd had in his head since leaving the restaurant, each tick a reminder of their time finally slipping away. He didn't have to wonder if she could hear it, too.

For one breathtaking moment, Ziva stopped, her cheeks flushed and her exhales ragged. She trapped his gaze in the darkened heart of her own, demanding his response to her counter-offer.

Swallowing hard, he muttered, "This works, too," while sliding his hands deep into the jungle foliage of her curly hair and eagerly pulling them back together.

* * *

Tony awoke not only with a start, but also without her. A glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand informed him that it was now firmly the middle of the night. He must have dozed off afterwards, because the last thing he could recall was listening to their breathing gradually return to normal as he draped an arm over her waist.

The same arm now stretched out at his side, taking the temperature of her half of the bed and finding it lukewarm, while at the same time the quiet strains of live piano music reached his ears. Relief filled his lungs on the next inhale. She hadn't gone far.

The bedroom lingered in shadows, the only reprieve a hint of artificial light seeping in through the door left open a crack. After he pulled on a v-neck t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, his bare feet followed the sliver of illumination out of the room.

Ziva sat with her back to him at the piano, clothed in only the faded blue button-down she'd unceremoniously removed from his body before they tumbled into bed. She took up a compact amount of space on the right side of the bench, leaving his customary spot to the left open for him. The lamp atop the piano shone down on her hands as they moved steadily over the keys.

The few times he'd seen her at the instrument convinced him she was a natural. That disciplined back, those almost freakishly long fingers. The imperceptible sway of her whole body to the music. The lessons might have been for him, but she was the true pianist. It made sense that he discovered her here, at the same piano in the same dim living room that started everything. Their summer, bookended. A beginning, middle, and—

Suddenly, it was quiet; her fingers paused but were still poised to play. "Tony," she stated without a glance behind her.

It was good to know her ninja senses had evaded rust despite sitting dormant for months.

"Caught me." Tony approached, placing his hands on her shoulders, immediately detecting the bundles of tension under her skin. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I did not mean to wake you."

"It's okay," he soothed, his thumbs massaging the top of her back, even though it would do nothing to ease the true cause of her anxiety. The relief she craved wouldn't come from bedroom activities (however pleasant) or from the solace of the piano, but only as a result of somehow resolving their current conflict.

When her hands abandoned the keyboard, dropping to the tails of his shirts that covered the bare skin of her thighs, Tony adjusted as well, maneuvering into his reserved seat beside her on the bench, his back pressed up to the piano.

His full attention focused on the slope of her downcast eyes. "Ziva, we're going to have to talk about it sometime. Doesn't have to be right now, but—"

"What is there to talk about?" The gaze he was waiting for rose, traces of melancholy hiding in the shadows of the tiny, closed-lip smile that deflated before it had a chance of convincing him she wasn't affected by this, too. "We should have known this was coming. We have been foolish to believe it could..."

"What? Mean something?"

Her eyelids flicked down and up, doing nothing to clear the cloudiness from the hazelnut orbs.

"Last," she said.

The small shrug of her slim shoulders was resignation in a single gesture, catapulting him back to the minutes before turning their badges in to Vance.

After a final verification on the plan of action, Tony regarded his partner. "You may not like how this ends, Ziva."

It should have told him something that he was more worried about the fallout for her than for himself; after all, he was quitting, too.

"I have never depended on happy endings," she replied, calm despite the significance of walking away from her hard-won career and the only semblance of family she had to speak of.

"Well, you should."

He didn't mean for the words to come out as heatedly as they did, but he let them blaze a trail from his lips to her ears anyway, because she was his partner and his friend, and he'd witnessed—a few times fist-hand—all the crazy shit she'd been through, and he wanted good things for her, so sue him.

Besides, her eyes would roll and she'd pay the comment no attention, just as she did with most of what he said to her. He never anticipated the slow dawning of a reserved smile, accented by the soft light of the lamp on her desk, or the minute lift of her shoulders that said that was how it was and how it always would be.

Now he realized she hadn't been exaggerating about her expectations. What they'd spent the past four months building together was just another in a long line of good things that would be ultimately denied to her. Things she once had and lost, or that she never had and longed for, and that she didn't even try to keep anymore.

But it was time for that to change.

* * *

Snapping Tony from his momentary reverie was one of her delicate hands coming to rest, flat palm down, on his chest, delivering him back to his apartment and the narrow bench they shared in the center of it.

"It is what it is," Ziva stressed. Her chin dipped, aiming to disguise its tell-tale trembling, but he saw it nevertheless. "We would be wise to—"

His broad hand covered hers, interrupting both her concession speech and the run of her fingers over the wrinkles in his t-shirt. "But what if...?" Half of his thought was enough to gain her eyes, captured from their aimless wandering. "What if this didn't have to…end?"

Tony refused to accept that this summer with her was a time out of life, an interlude, something that had an expiration date. He'd—no, _they'd_ waited too long to come away with nothing more than a teasing morsel of what could be possibly theirs. If they were brave.

Wariness sparked dramatically in her eyes. "And what would you have us do about our jobs?"

"Technically, we don't have them anymore, remember?"

They'd been operating under this unspoken assumption that they would eventually go back to their previous posts as NCIS special agents, but there was no guaranteeing they would have jobs to go back toverysoon. The bold thought of moving forward, rather than retracing their well-worn steps, set his pulse galloping.

"NCIS is everything we know. It is our family." The deliberateness with which Ziva tucked a strand of hair behind her ear revealed her apprehension as much as her tense statements.

"That won't change—you know Abby wouldn't let it—but if we're all reinstated, you and I will be back in the same boat as before with Gibbs' rules," he countered. "Besides, we're highly-trained federal agents. Who wouldn't want to hire us?"

Judging by the hesitant look she gave him, Ziva wasn't as easily swept up as he was by the idea. He didn't blame her; it sounded crazy to him, too. What would they do instead? Where would they go? He didn't have any definite answers yet, but that didn't stop him from trying to give them to her.

Taking both of her hands in his own, Tony smiled down at her. "In the meantime, you can come with me to visit Senior in the Big Apple. Last I heard, he was shacked up with some wealthy widow on the Upper West Side." His eyebrows waggled. "Should be interesting."

The random proposition ignited surprised confusion in her gaze, just as he knew it would. "Your father would not mind if I was there?"

"Are you kidding? Between the two of us, I'm pretty sure you're his favorite."

Tony didn't realize he was aiming to make her laugh until her airy chuckles echoed like wind chimes in his ears. It was all the encouragement he needed to press into the centimeters of space keeping the sides of their legs from touching. Anything to be nearer to her.

"Then, one of these days," he continued on in a voice shedding its humor to make room for sincerity to move in, "we can go to Israel and visit your Aunt Nettie or any of your other relatives."

"How is it that you remember her?" Ziva asked, astonished and slightly perplexed. "I have only mentioned her once, perhaps twice, in all of these years."

His thumbs swept steadily along her knuckles, while his eyes held hers, unwavering. "I told you, Ziva. To me…" A helpless smile overtook his face. "You're unforgettable. It's one of the things I love about you."

For a long second, she stared through the short distance at him, not blinking. Only the shifting of her eyes, scanning him for genuineness, told him she had indeed heard him. Every word.

"One of many," Tony tagged on, shrugging his apology for not mentioning it sooner.

At that, her expression softened into the look of contentment he'd grown so fond of bringing out of her, and now he had another way of evoking it to add to the list. Her hands untangled from his hold to grasp at his chest and then his neck, moving all the way up to the sides of his face, framing him between her fingers, making him visible for her eyes only.

"My Tony…"

The endearment was a whisper on her lips, indistinct from the wisp of warm breath that carried it to his heart.

Forcing himself to swallow, to breathe, Tony inclined just enough for their foreheads to rest against each other. He was wrong before, when he told himself this was something he could get used to. In reality, it was already something he knew he couldn't live without. So he did the first thing that popped into his mind to leave her with no doubt of _them_.

He brushed his thumb across her lower lip, and then he kissed her—deeply, lovingly. His fingers raked into the silky hair at the nape of her neck, and her arms wrapped around his back, their dual efforts bringing them as close as the cramped space on the bench permitted. He considered it a good sign when her lips parted, granting him access to all of her, as if he didn't already have it. They kissed and nibbled and tasted for what seemed endless minutes, but he would have been satisfied to kiss her all night, or what was left of it, because their time was no longer running out. This was just the beginning.

At his hip, two of her fingers slipped under the waistband of his pants, doing nothing but owning that small, concealed piece of his body—and there was no denying how hot that was to him. His mouth plunged to the base of her neck in response, sensing the vibrations of her breathy moan before it sighed through her teeth, clamped down on her swollen bottom lip as he began nibbling at her collarbone. It was her turn to glide her fingers into his hair, holding on while her head tipped back, opening up more silken places for him to devour.

And had his elbow not accidentally struck a smattering of piano keys, producing a dissonant clamor that shocked them apart, they might have been lost to their passions until morning.

"Naturally," he groaned, and they shared a quiet laugh, neither relinquishing even a gasp of distance from the other.

All manner of her previous despondency was replaced with flushed cheeks and something like anticipation in the tilt of her head, as though she was already envisioning what came next for them while regarding him.

"This will not be simple."

Perking at the implication of the phrase, Tony took hold of the collar on the shirt she was currently borrowing from him, righting one side and tugging her closer by its persuasion. Her skin smelled of him, and he hoped her scent lingered on him, as well. It required all the restraint he possessed to keep from falling into everything she offered all over again. Instead, he sought clarification with a cautious smile.

"So is that a 'yes' to giving _us_ a whirl?"

He couldn't promise her a happy ending—there were too many complicated variables in their lives—but a new beginning, with the possibility of happiness along the way, was well within his power to give. That is, if she allowed him to try.

Her smile was radiant, matching his widening beam as if through a mirror. Curling her hands around his forearms, she linked herself firmly into his embrace.

"I would like that," she whispered to him, "very much."


	6. May: Epilogue

**- May: Epilogue -**

Due to the late hour, the atrium of the hotel was empty save for the lone employee behind the registration desk and Tony, who sat at the piano positioned beside the stone fireplace in the lounge area. He'd learned that every piano had its own distinct sound, and this one was slightly sharp for his liking, but it would have to do. There wasn't much time left to practice.

His fingers had flown through the opening again and were heading for the intricate middle section, when familiar hands glided over the slopes of his shoulders and took up residence in the valley of his chest. The comforting smell of honey and almonds tickled his nose; soft tendrils of her hair brushed across his neck, alighting chills down his spine.

He hadn't heard her approach, but his best friend was always a welcome surprise. Even now, when she was the last person he wanted hearing the rehearsal of that particular piece. His fingers lifted from the keys and the music died off.

"I do not recognize that piece," Ziva remarked, leaning the run of her body along his back and as a result, letting him know how little she was wearing under her silky robe.

"Well, I'd hope not." Giving no further explanation, Tony blindly grabbed one of her hands, the modest setting of her ring pressing into the fleshy part of his palm. "Come play with me."

With a kiss behind his ear, she murmured huskily, "I would rather you play with _me_."

Who could resist a line like that?

Tony reached around and seized her waist, earning a throaty chuckle from her as he guided her down into his lap. As her arms linked around his neck, cinching herself ever closer to him, he looked over her shoulder, caught the eye of the hotel employee, and nodded. The smart man took the hint and backed away sheepishly, making himself scarce.

"You are not getting the, um, chilly feet?"

"Close," he praised with a laugh, his joined hands settling on her hip. "No, I'm not getting cold feet. Are you?"

There was plenty they could regret, after all.

When the sun rose, it would be a year to the day that they resigned from NCIS, a choice that forever altered their futures when they both followed through on their plan not to seek reinstatement. Though they had lost their jobs for good, they didn't lose their family, just as Tony had predicted, and each member had learned to respect their decision in their own way. Following an exoneration process, Gibbs and McGee were reinstated to the team in the fall, so the couple was still able to see everyone whenever they were in D.C.

Ziva often referred to their years at NCIS as one movement in the symphony of their lives: it nurtured their skills and talents, both personal and professional; it provided a place for them to call home when they needed it most; and it was the first they shared, for which they would always be grateful. The previous summer, though, had acted as a bridge for them into this next movement, and it centered entirely on _them_.

Visiting Senior in New York City had kindled in them a love affair with the bustling metropolis that outlasted the elder DiNozzo's interest in the rich widow. When they weren't working freelance jobs or settling into their new apartment in the city, they were traveling. Frequent, spontaneous excursions took them to parts of the world Tony had only seen in movies. Anywhere was an adventure with his partner, who blossomed in the swirl of exotic languages and cultures of the foreign countries, and he was the lone recipient, privy to every version there was of Ziva David.

It wasn't long before he knew he wanted them all, permanently.

Framed by the red and orange flames of the fireplace, his fiancée kissed him long and hard, serving as her reply. So much had changed, but she was still a woman of few words when it came to her feelings. Lucky for him, he was fluent in this form of communication as well, and he didn't hear a single regret in the flick of her tongue against his own.

"If not that," she persisted after they peeled apart, "then why, may I ask, are you down here on the eve of the ceremony?"

They were eloping in the morning. It was a formality at this point. They already belonged to each other.

"What can I say? You've created a monster."

Her eyes slanted, making it clear she was unconvinced by his humor and brilliant smile.

Tony sighed. "It's something I've been working on. I was going to surprise you with it tomorrow."

Considering that the piano brought them together, there was nothing he could think of that was more fitting to celebrate their marriage than their own original melody. He'd actually become a pretty good pianist through all of this—go figure. Amidst travel and work over the past few months, he'd nevertheless reached the point where Ziva could no longer teach him anything.

The brunette was still for a moment, simply gazing at him, touched. "You have never failed to surprise me, Tony," she said finally, her voice low and thick, "in every way imaginable. It is one thing I love you about you."

He beamed at the familiar phrase, the one he first used months earlier when persuading her to choose them, and that they'd both employed ever since to share what they appreciated most about each other.

"I'll have to remember that one," he chuckled, his wink acting as punctuation. "And I love you, too." About that, he wasn't joking. Never would.

"I know you do," Ziva assured him, caressing his cheek with the backs of her fingers, cool nails on scruffy stubble. "Would you consider playing it for me now, my love?"

"The song? It's still kinda rough…"

Despite the forewarning, Tony shifted her within his arms, unwilling to relinquish her even to better facilitate reaching the keyboard. His hands moved deftly, generating the short albeit poignant tune that hopefully evoked their journey of heartache and friendship and growth. He wanted her to think of how far they'd come, and all that they still had to look forward to, every time he played it for her.

Perched on his knee, Ziva was motionless, listening intently. Then, in an action that tore him apart, she placed one of her hands on top of his as he continued to play, her fingers rising and falling with the waves of the piece he wrote for her, riding the dips of the notes, cresting on the suspended tension in the breaths between chords.

He wasn't sure when it happened—the switch of her focus from the piano onto him—but suddenly her lips found his mouth, imparting the sweetest of reviews with each tender kiss. And though his hands deserted the keys to hold her tight and close, the melody sustained, alive in the harmony of their devotion to each other and to this new life they were composing together.

**The end**

* * *

**Oh my goodness, it's done! Ugh, don't look at me—I'm all **_**verklempt**_**. *sniffles* And to think, I started writing this because, after the news of Cote leaving, I got a flash in my mind of Tony playing the piano in his darkened apartment, sad because Ziva had left him, and I thought, "That can't be how it ends." Who knew it would take 11,600+ words to prove myself right? **

**Well, I know I've said it a lot, but I do sincerely hope you all enjoyed this story. Thank you for coming along for the ride. Hugs all around! - Tatiana**


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